


Runa's Keeper

by Joelcoxriley



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Animals, Anxiety, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Drama & Romance, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion References, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Loss, Father-Daughter Relationship, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Infection, Innocence, Intimacy, Loss of Control, Loss of Faith, Loss of Identity, Loss of Innocence, Masks, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Motherhood, Near Death Experiences, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Pets, Post-Oblivion Crisis, Rage, Rating May Change, Regret, Responsibility, Spiritual, Tags May Change, Teen Pregnancy, Tragic Romance, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joelcoxriley/pseuds/Joelcoxriley
Summary: Runa is the Listener. Blind, and slowly dying of infection, she heavily relies upon her raven familiar, Nox, to be her eyes. Knowing her death draws ever nigh, Runa struggles between choosing to perform her duties as Listener, or live the life of the girl she may have been, once, before being twisted into madness by the Night Mother's whispers.*One shot series.*
Relationships: Lucien Lachance/Female Listener, Lucien Lachance/Listener, Lucien Lachance/Original Female Character(s), Mathies (Elder Scrolls) & Original Female Character(s), Mathieu Bellamont/Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil
Kudos: 8





	Runa's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but Runa and Nox.
> 
> Nox will appear in the second chapter :D

The Listener was many things.

A title, and a rank of the utmost authority within the Dark Brotherhood.

But a title-a rank-Listener was much more than that.

To Runa, the title of Listener was a spiritual calling.

An unholy calling of a higher purpose, that required diligence, restraint, and sacrifice.

Three words that Runa, herself, knew far too well.

For nigh two centuries, Runa lived by those three words in her quest for enlightenment.

Indeed, Runa could not remember the last time she lived as _Runa_.

Perhaps when she was-what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Seventeen?

Runa supposed it did not matter now.

After all, the girl known as _Runa_ was dead for many a year.

Tainted and twisted into madness wrought on by the title of Listener.

Yes, Runa was no longer _Runa_.

Runa was the Listener.

And she would remain known as such.

To live her life under the title of the Night Mother's most unholy Child.

Her most sacred Child.

What more could the Listener possibly want?

What more could Runa possibly want?

These thoughts plagued her mind more and more of late, and they were made even worse by the surge of foreign thoughts that invaded and tainted her mind.

Perverted her mind with foolish thoughts.

Distracted her from her own sacred duties as Listener.

Distracted her from her own responsibilities of leading Falkreath's Family.

All because of Lucien _fuckin_ ' Lachance, and his silver tongue.

Indeed, Runa stood within her chambers, feminine fingers pressing flush against the fabric of her dress, feeling the silk ripple and smooth under her touch. The dress was a simple, yet elegant one. White in hue, almost making her pallor skin even more sickly than it already was. Her hair cascaded down her back, and spilled over her shoulders in twists and twirls, as if a river of fire in its orange hue against a backdrop of winter snow. Medical bandages were wound around her head, and over her eyes, a lei of flowers hanging over the dressing, petals wilting and drying. Several of the once vivid petals lay near her naked feet, flesh pressed against the cold stone of the Sanctuary's lair.

Runa's attire lay upon her bed, the room simple, for it only sported a dresser, an end table, a desk, and her actual bed. Candles were burning, their wicks aflame and casting soft, gentle glows around the quarters.

The chamber smelled of medicinal herbs, and infection.

A rife, overpowering scent.

A scent that Runa knew far too well, and was well aware of.

Her stench of infection was just one of the reasons she chose to live a life of isolation.

Away from the Family's more mundane activities and socializings.

And when she was involved, Runa always made sure she sat farthest away from everyone.

Hopefully far enough away that they could not smell her rot.

Smell her decay.

Smell her death.

As Listener, it was her duty to defend her Family.

Even if it meant defending them from herself.

After all, she was sure they smelled her wounds.

Her infection.

They just pretended they did not.

It was a constant reminder that Runa had, running through her mind.

That unlike her Dark Siblings, she had no eyes.

That unlike her Dark Siblings, she was dying.

And she could feel it every time she took Hevnoraak off.

Feel the malaise and fever worsen and burn her insides, and make the world a hazy dream.

Feel the sweat begin to form, and her skin begin to heat and flush.

Feel the lumps upon her neck and behind her slightly pointed ears swell and become tender.

Runa hated taking off Hevnoraak.

It made her weak.

It made her not be Listener-the sacred child, the will of the Family, the unrelenting and merciless matriarch.

It made her be Runa-the scared child, the child kept by her mother out of pity, the woman who was still a girl, deep down.

It made her feel like a hideous beast, when she was trying to look pleasant.

Runa hated this dress. It clung to her like a second skin, and she was having difficulty moving in it-if only due to her not being used to dresses. She was not comfortable.

And she hated the dress more, because it reminded her, and made her feel.

She hated this dress, yet she loved it.

Because when she first wore it, Lucien called her striking.

 _Striking_.

For the first time, Runa did not find herself flushing due to her fever.

She felt heat spread from her face-along her cheeks, to her ears.

She felt the palms of her hands begin to warm, and become clammy and sweaty.

All because Speaker Lachance called her _striking_.

Runa was not used to comments.

She was not used to attention-however minor.

But from that simple comment-birthed a foreign feeling within her bosom.

Giddiness.

Hope.

One or the other, perhaps both.

The girl within came alive, and began to hope, and dream-never mind that Lachance was a spirit.

But the Listener knew better.

The Listener kept Runa grounded to reality, and not fantasy.

Grounded, to the cold truth of reality, and not to the past regret healed in girlish fantasy.

Her calloused fingers resumed to glide and mold the fabric of the dress, feeling her curvature.

How would her life had been different, if she never found her father's diary? Never read the ramblings of a madman, written in the blood of his victims?

Would she still live with her mother?

Her brothers?

Or be on her own, and be married, and be a mother of three?

Her fingers began to curl and drip the fabric, knuckles turning white as her calloused hands formed into nigh fists. Her rage began to simmer and boil, threatening to spill as she thought.

All these years-spent in religious meditation and seeking spiritual enlightening, listening to the demented whispers of an old corpse-

-All those years, spent alone, in isolation-

-When she could have been-

-Falling in love-

-Getting married-

-Baring children-

-Fuck Lachance-

-Fuck him for making her realize-

- _Runa_ was still there-

-And that she was-

-Angry-

-Sad-

-Jealous-

-Envious-

-Scared-

-Regretting-

-Realizing-

Realizing that she never got to live.

Runa's nails threatened to pierce into her own palms, even through the dress caught within her hold. Her breath was deep, and slow, jaw tense and teeth clenched. Her arteries pulsed in rage just under the skin of her neck.

Her face flushed in anger, in sadness, in illness.

Her white knuckles shook, and her palms began to sweat.

Her shoulders began to tremble, and her breath hitched.

A choked, muffled sob escaped the Breton, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

She was killing herself.

Just so she could try and live, however brief.

Live, before she died.

Just in the foolish hopes that she could be called striking once more.

Just in the foolish hopes that she could feel something else other than her disease consuming her body.

Just in the foolish hopes that she could live as _Runa_ and not as Listener.

As the girl who never got to live.


End file.
